


Ride 'Em Cowboy

by AlexinBrum



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cowboys, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 17:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12686745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexinBrum/pseuds/AlexinBrum
Summary: Dean helps Cas dress like a cowboy. Then kisses him. Cas kisses back.Inspired by this picture:





	Ride 'Em Cowboy

Dean admires his reflection. He looks good, and he knows it. Sharp suit, cowboy boots, stetson. The bolo tie was a master stroke. He slips his hand into his pocket and pouts at the glass. Hell yeah. He looks good.

At the sound of footsteps behind him, Dean turns round. There stands Cas, wearing what Cas always wears - shapeless trenchcoat flapping around over the ten year old suit of a dead man. And, let’s face it, Jimmy Novak was no pin-up. The ill-fitting stetson perched awkwardly above Cas’s frown serves only to make him look even more like a confused toddler stuck in the body of the world’s most boring accountant.

“No.”

Cas’s eyes narrow even more.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Dean.”

“No, Cas. You can’t wear… Just, no.”

“Fine,” and Cas takes off the stetson, rumpling his hair as if to remove any trace. “I was finding it rather… oppressive.”

“Hey, woah! You’re not ditching the hat!”

“But you said…”

Dean grabs the stetson from Cas’s hand and sets it back on his head. He then manhandles Cas next to him, in front of the mirror.

“Look. Just look. Look at me. Now, look at you. Spot the difference?”

Cas studies their reflections. Up, and down. His eyes flick between Dean - expectant, waiting for the penny to drop - and himself, focused and analytical. Finally he understands.

“You’re not wearing a coat.”

“OK, right. Ditch the coat. That’ll be a start at least.”

As Cas shrugs out of the trench, he grumbles.

“What if I get cold?”

“Cowboys roving the western plains have more of a problem with the sun, Cas.”

“We’re in Montana in November, Dean.”

“Whatever. You’re gonna have to ditch the shoes too.”

“They are perfectly serviceable.”

Dean grabs Cas's shoulders and manhandles him over to the racks of boots.

“Cowboy boots, Cas. And don’t even think about coming back until you’re up to Doctor Sexy standards.”

As Cas trails resentfully over to the store’s collection of boots, Dean watches him fondly. Cas has all the potential to be an awesome cowboy - the stubble, the voice, the badass fighting skills. But he just needs to work on his style. 

Cas walks back from the boot racks. No, wait. He doesn’t walk. He… struts. Clack, clack, clack - nice and slow. Dean is impressed. 

“You see, makes all the difference,” Dean finds himself saying as they face the mirror again.

“Are we done now?”

“Well, do you think we’re done?”

Again, Cas studies, analyses. With a heavy heart he reluctantly concedes.

“The suit isn’t right. It’s the wrong style. Yours is… tighter. More fitted.”

“Atta boy!” Dean declares in delight. “Off you go. Let the nice lady help you out.” and he watches proudly as Cas approaches the nearest assistant, evidently explaining what he needs by pointing over at Dean, who gives him an encouraging thumbs up. The woman smiles in understanding, and beckons Cas to follow her into a changing room. He throws a petrified look back at Dean before disappearing behind the faded curtain. It reminds Dean of a night, several years ago, when the world was ending and he’d had more fun than he had in years. All because Mr Fearless Warrior of the Lord couldn’t handle being alone with a pretty girl. Dean could understand, especially after the April debacle. Come to think of it, they’ve been in there quite a while now. Should Dean go and check on him? Sure, Cas is thousands of years old, but he’s still way too trusting. She could be anyone, anything. A cold chill runs down Dean’s spine. He can’t lose Cas, not again. 

But just as he’s about to take out his gun, the curtain pulls back and the assistant steps out, looking awfully pleased with herself. She waves a hand to encourage Cas into the room. As he steps shyly out into the light, Dean sucks in a breath. YES is all his brain seems to conjure up. Over and over again. YES YES YES.

It takes him a couple of minutes to collect himself, his dry mouth scratching out, “Looking good, man,” as Cas struts back over to the mirror. Clack, clack, clack.

This time, as they stand side by side, Dean isn’t admiring his own reflection. Instead, his eyes are drawn to Cas. The suit is fitted in all the right places, and he wants to give the assistant an extra tip for swapping Cas’s ratty old blue tie for a smart leather bolo. Then Cas ruins it by plonking the stetson on like a five year old at Halloween.

“Oh my god. Seriously?” 

Cas looks like he’s about to smite Dean, or the hat, or both.

“Look, man. You can’t just… There’s an attitude, OK? See?”

Dean shifts his own stetson to the back of his head, perfectly central. He looks like a giant dork. There’s the smallest of angry nods from Cas to indicate it’s been noted. Then Dean grasps the hat at the front, shifts it down and to the left. He looks up darkly from under its brim, every bit the gun slinging sheriff facing down the bad guy. His voice is tumbleweed, grit and gun smoke.

“Do you see?” 

Cas swallows. Blushes. Shifts in his new boots and nods. When he finds his voice it has a slight tremble.

“Yes Dean, I see.” He removes the stetson and contemplates his hands as he curls his fingers around the brim.

“Cowboy isn’t just a costume, Cas. It’s swagger. Bravado. Recklessness. These guys, they lived on the frontier of civilisation, riding from town to town, saving women, killing the bad guys, nothing but a pack of smokes and a cheap bottle of whiskey to their names.”

Cas is bright with dawning comprehension. “They were hunters.”

Dean is thrown for a second. “Yeah, I guess they were.”

“Except they got the public recognition that hunters never do. That you never get.”

Dean brushes off the concern. “Hey, I got my sheriff’s badge. It just comes with a fake ID that Sammy knocked up in Tulsa.”

But Cas’s sincerity can’t be banished so easily. “I’d choose you over John Wayne any day, Dean.”

Dean’s face heats up again.

“Just, shut up, pay and put your hat on,” he says, looking everywhere but at Cas. “Sam’ll be wondering where we got to.”

Dean stalks over to the exit, then turns to wait. Cas is at the till, his back to the door, and Dean feels a mild twinge of annoyance at the assistant’s blatant flirting. But this is nothing compared to the unmistakable surge of unadulterated lust that courses through his whole body as Cas turns and swaggers towards him, swinging his hips in the figure-hugging suit. Goddammit, he even twirls his damn gun, looking up with smouldering intent from beneath the brim of the stetson, which is now set forward and at a wantonly provocative angle. The slow clack, clack, clack of the boots is echoed by the thump, thump, thump of Dean’s heart, pumping blood straight to where it absolutely shouldn’t be heading. Not now, in broad daylight, in a tacky wild west store in fucking Montana. 

There’s no more denying it. Dean’s known he loves Cas for a long time, but somehow he’d always managed to file his love away in the ‘friend’ drawer. Close friends, sure. Family even. Good buds. But there is absolutely nothing ‘good’ about what he’s thinking right now as heaven’s sexiest cowboy saunters towards him, forcing him to replay every sinful Eastwood fantasy he’s ever had, but with Cas as the main attraction. 

Cas stops in front of him. Too close. His head tilts.

“Are you OK, Dean?”

And Dean can’t speak. Or think. So he doesn’t. He surges forward and kisses Cas. Right there. In fucking Montana.

And Cas kisses back. A lot.

Someone’s hat falls off.

Stubble. Good.

Hands. Very good.

They break apart, breathing heavily. Dean’s a little dazed, but Cas manages to collect himself long enough to reach down and retrieve Dean’s stetson from the floor. He places it carefully on Dean’s head, tilting it forward and slightly to the left. There’s something so sincere and tender in the way he does it. Dean feels an overwhelming surge of love.

“Thanks Cas,” he says, almost shyly.

Cas’s eyes smile.

“I think I understand now. Your fascination with... all this.”

“Yeah?”

“How you feel about cowboys is how I’ve always felt about you.”

And that’s it. No going back. He’s going to have to ‘come out’ to Sam, goddammit. And he’s going to be ‘the gay one’ and endure endless jibes from asshole hunters who think they’re funny. And there’ll probably be some righteous shit storm from heaven that he really, really doesn’t want to deal with. But he will. Because that’s what you do when you’ve just realised your best friend is the love of your life. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters. “Get in the damn car.”


End file.
